


Put Your Wings On Me

by chewysugar



Series: Robin's Nest [3]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Bat Brothers, Bat Family, Batfamily Feels, Bathing/Washing, Brotherly Love, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Flying, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Love, M/M, Making Out, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Running Away, Sleeping Together, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Tim Drake-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 15:16:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13743663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: Tim tries so hard to fly higher and be better. When everything gets too much for him to deal with, he runs away from Wayne Manor to the one person he needs more than ever.Part of my "Robin's Nest" series.





	Put Your Wings On Me

**Author's Note:**

> Tim is my favourite Robin. I love all Robin's equally--except Stephanie because I haven't gotten the chance to know her very well yet--but Timmy holds a special place in my heart.

_Keep it together; watch out for the family; don’t make a mistake._

Tim repeats the phrase over and over in his head. It’s something he’s done since the age of nine. Back when most kids his age were obsessing over the latest Nintendo handheld, he was doing everything in his power to be better—to be stronger, better, faster. Nobody had ever asked him to—it had simply been a self-imposed regimen. He’d set the bar for his own perfection, and had been trying to vault over it ever since.

He pushes the barbell higher, his vision already blurry without his glasses. But he won’t quit; he can’t quit. He needs to maintain his strength, needs to work at it, or else something might go disastrously wrong.

In the beginning he had to prove himself—had to show his capability not just to his personal hero, but to an old friend in the form of Dick Grayson. It had been exhausting to have both Bruce and Dick constantly slamming the door in his face, but persistence was just another way to prove himself, and he’d won out in the end.

Only something had happened after he’d become Robin. He’d not only found himself having to do better, but to hide the visible effort from everyone.

His muscles scream at him to stop, like they always do when he pushes it too far. In a matter of moments they start to juice; his arms begin to shake as he loses his strength, but he won’t give in, not yet. He’s done better than this before, and he’ll be damned if he can’t do better again.

He lifts, even though it feels like his biceps and triceps are going to burst. He can make it. Just one more rep and then—

His sweat-covered fingers slip. The barbell falters, a combined two-hundred pounds bound to crush his face into a pulp.

Someone catches at the last second. Tim rolls away from the bench, ignoring the panic that momentarily set his already accelerated heart racing like a stallion.

“Slow down there, Schwarzenegger. You’re making me green with envy.”

It’s Jason. Tim doesn’t even recall him entering the Cave’s gym. He was alone when he came down. Jason certainly doesn’t look like he’s hitting the weights—he’s still got his leather jacket on, the barbell gripped almost effortlessly in his hand as he sets it back on the grip.

He’s smiling in a bemused way. “You looking to get a hernia, Tim?”

Tim has to play back; has to joke, even though he feels completely humiliated and just a little bit angry. “Only if you’re the one who’s going to feel my balls while I cough.”

Jason arches an eyebrow. “Tempting, but that would be hella creepy for so many reasons. ‘Sides, Dick might kill us both if he walked in on that little scene.”

He and Dick are together; have been for months now. Tim is happy for them, but there are times, such as now, when he can’t help but feel a momentary pang of something. It’s not jealousy, because he’s not that petty. It’s just that Jason and Dick being together is just another way in which he, Tim, feels on the outside—separate from the family he wants nothing more than to be a part of.

Wiping the sweat out of his eyes, he gives Jason a half smile. “God forbid that ever happens and we lose the most important Robin.” It sounds a note more petulant than he means it too.

Jason frowns. But seeming to just accept that fact that Tim has now developed the emotional vocabulary of a seven year old, lets the subject drop, leaving Tim wishing wildly that he could take his words back, if not the tone he spoke them in.

“There’s a powwow down by the comp.” Jason still gazes at Tim as if trying to scan him with X-ray vision. “Some rising shitgibbons in The Narrows have a shipment of what’s either pure Peruvian marching powder, or enriched cornstarch coming in. We’re talking tactics and all that jazz.”

This is good because it gives Tim a chance to be part of something, both as a Robin and as a member of the family.

“Be right up.”

Even though Jason nods, he doesn’t leave right away. He gives Tim another searching once-over, looking as if he’s trying to figure out a complicated strategy as opposed to interacting with another human being. “Are you okay?”

Tim rolls his eyes. “Five by five.”

Jason isn’t buying it, but if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s giving people space. His gaze is still confused, bordering on concerned, but he doesn’t press the issue, and soon Tim is walking off to the showers alone. He’s anticipating the Bat family meeting too much to linger under the hot jets, even though every muscle in his body would like nothing more than to do just that.

He’s at the enormous computer in five minutes, his glasses jammed onto the end of his nose so hastily that it leaves a red mark. Dick, Bruce and Jason are gathered by the central control, all sober suited, looking grim.

“There he is,” Dick grins a greeting as Tim joins the family. “We thought you were going to set up camp in the gym.”

Tim shrugs, then suppresses a wince due to the pain that ratchets through his muscles. “What can I say? I’m dedicated.”

“Good thing too,” Jason says. “Or where the hell would that leave us filthy casuals who only use the gym for wrestling?”

“Oh is that what you two get up to?” Tim feigns surprise as he looks between Dick and Jason. “I know the Ancient Greeks were all for wrestling naked, but—

“Tim.” Bruce’s voice is warning, and Tim immediately puts a lid on it.

The rundown is mercifully brief. As Jason had told Tim earlier, Bruce has seized intelligence from a source—code word for “Selina”—that a new gang in The Narrows has a shipment bound from Honduras to the docks. It’s all recon, and since business has been slow, there’s no reason they can’t all scope the place out and keep even more drugs off the streets of the city.

Tim tries to keep his excitement under wraps. It’s been so long since he’s been able to be of much use to the family. He, Jason and Dick complete the trifecta of brains, instinct and brawn; helping out in this, even if it’s simple as far as cases for the Bat family go, gives him a chance to be useful.

At least until he opens his big mouth as they’re all getting ready to depart.

“Hey Bruce. If the south and east parts of the wharf are so close together, then doesn’t that risk bigger chance of me and Jason drawing too much attention to ourselves?”

Bruce, Jason and Dick all peer at the enlarged map taking up most of the space on the screen. Tim can almost hear the cogs in Bruce’s brain turning; he’s been here so long that he knows the telltale signs—the thinning of lips; the hardness in those ice gray eyes. Bruce is rapidly putting something together, and it’s only when he gives Tim a swift, barely there glance of something like apology, that Tim understands what’s about to happen.

“Good point, Tim. Jason, you’ll cover the east and south docks. That leaves Dick and I on west and north.”

Tim wants to ask what he’ll be doing, but Dick beats him to the punch. “And Tim? What’s he going to do?”

Bruce is already walking away. “Whatever he wants. We don’t need to risk the four of us out there when three will suffice.”

Jason and Dick stare at Tim, Dick looking a little nonplussed but not too bothered. But again, it’s the way Jason watches him, with that imperceptible understanding that really rattles Tim. He feels let down, certainly, and not just the least bit bewildered, but this is just a routine bust—just a routine bust that he wanted so badly to be a part of.

He hates himself for getting his hopes up, hates himself for having thought that if he was better he’d be more use to his family. Because they don’t need him, not now that Jason is picking up the slack that Tim’s always leaving behind.

“Uh,” Dick says awkwardly. Bruce is long gone to suit up, and there’s nothing that any of them can say to change what’s happened—or to quell the tornado of thoughts and feelings now storming in Tim’s mind.

Tim makes himself smile; makes himself look his brothers in the eyes. He hopes to heaven that his eyes aren’t betraying him; glasses have a way of magnifying the windows of the soul, and even though all he wants is to hide his face and process, he knows that Jason and Dick would tell him to get over himself.

“Whatever,” he says with a shrug. “Guess I could just go through Midtown and see what’s shaking.” 

“Helena and Babs have got that covered,” Dick says. He sounds too sympathetic. It’s just a simple bust; there’s no reason for Tim to be feeling upset, or warm all over, or like he’s been dropped in the middle of a whiteout.

“Alright. Whatever.” And then, before either of his brothers can say anything to hold him back, Tim walks away from the computer. The disappointment is being eclipsed by a fury at his own stupid self for feeling it in the first place. He makes a mental note to work on this next, and then immediately feels like a moron for having focused so much on his body of late when he’s clearly got some serious mental cleaning up to do.

He’s halfway up the cold, empty elevator to Bruce’s study when yet again he challenges his own epiphany: he’s always been the one to rely on when it comes to the thinky stuff. There’s nothing wrong with him other than being a little unsteady from having been summarily dismissed before the bust.

Everything that the Cave is, the study is not: warm, inviting, plush. Tim stares up at the shelves lining the wall, thinking that maybe he’ll distract himself with Colridge or Shelley for the night.

“Ah, Master Drake. I’d thought you’d be joining the proceedings tonight. To borrow a term from you young people, this new gang sounds quite “savage.’”

Leave it to Alfred to accidentally push a button.

Tim’s face falls, then on the turn of a dime is a mask of disaffection. He can’t let Alfred see how disappointed he is, otherwise Alfred will feel bad for having brought it up.

“It’s all good, Alfred. We don’t need all hands on deck for every cat up a tree.” Tim feels Alfred watching him, and he quickly grabs a copy of Anna Karenina to hide his gaze in.

“Hardly a cat up a tree,” Alfred says with a frown. “And I’d thought you’d already read Tolstoy’s finest work just last week.”

As far as Tim can tell, there’s no reason he can’t be up front. But again, Alfred might be upset at his petulance, and it could get back to Bruce. So Tim contents himself with a shrug and makes sure to look at Alfred at least once before tucking the mammoth tome under his arm.

“Well…y’know…it’s a page turner. Did you need help with anything, Alfred?”

The butler’s gaze is far too knowing. It makes Tim think about the way Jason looked at him back in the training room. And that sets him to thinking about what it was that has him up in the study when he wants to be out being useful.

“Nothing I myself cannot handle. Master Timothy, are you sure you’re quite—

“I’m fine!” It’s too sudden, too snappish, and Tim’s already started berating himself for having let his emotions get the best of him. In a time that he prays is even, he says, “Just a little bit, uh, tired. Think I might turn in.”

“At six-thirty in the evening?”

“Yeah. You know what they say: early to bed and so on. ‘Night, Alfred.” Tim’s hurrying out of the study, forgetting that he has the book still under his arm.

Why he had to go making things up with Alfred is beyond him. His trek over familiar carpet and through halls that have always been home to him is nothing short of painful as he tries to calculate just where in the hell he went wrong tonight.

It couldn’t have been in the gym, because he and Jason didn’t talk that much. Although, now Tim thinks of it, he did have to turn that switch that made him hopefully hard to read when Jason pulled his x-ray vision technique. Or perhaps it was the briefing—maybe Bruce was already thinking twice at sending him out on the bust, and why wouldn’t he? Together with Jason and dick, there’s enough savvy and smarts to bring down a drug import, and there’s certainly enough man-power. Of course Bruce wouldn’t need him. Only that can’t be because Tim himself had pointed out that unnecessary addition of a fourth patrol over the end of the wharf. If that’s not it then maybe—

Tim slams his bedroom door shut and chucks _Anna Karenina_ across the room. His thoughts are buzzing like a swarm of angry hornets, but try as he might, he can’t seem to make them stop. There’s a problem somewhere in that track, and if there’s one thing Tim Drake knows how to do, it’s solve a problem.

Or in this case, create one.

Obviously he’s lacking something, otherwise Jason and Dick would be including him in their training sessions; Bruce would be in need of him the way he did those years ago.

But he can’t think that because it’ll only cause an even bigger rift in its childishness, and if he’s thinking that then there must be something wrong, because—

“FUCK!” It’s half a scream, half a groan, and Tim instantly regrets it; he probably startled Alfred, and Alfred is too damn kind and trusting to have to put with Tim’s histrionics.

He just wants to make sure they’re happy, this family that took him in when they really had no reason to. He’s only a recent orphan, and though it took so much persistence, Bruce and Dick didn’t have to take in the know-it-all brat who wouldn’t take no for an answer. But they did, and he loves them—and doesn’t want to disappoint them. Now he is because he can’t just get a fucking grip on himself and sort what it is that he should be thinking and feeling from what’s only going to lead to ruin.

He’s so tired of thinking, of dissecting everything that passes through his head. And sleep has been eluding him for weeks on end. He can’t be alone, can’t let his thoughts keep ricocheting through his mind, slicing his brain to bloody shreds.

He has to get out. He has to do something with himself away from this place full of memory and thoughts.

Tim is no acrobat; he’s no kid off the streets. But he’s motivated by need, so his traversal through the manor to the garage is silent. It’s a brisk September night, the promise of oncoming winter adding a cooling nip to the air. Before his thoughts can catch up, he’s hurrying to the garage, taking in the smell of rubber and motor oil. 

This is stupid and reckless: Alfred doesn’t know where he is. None of the others know what he’s doing. But Tim is just too damn tired of trying to out-think himself—of feeling this compulsive need to analyze every thought, emotion and situation. He just wants to breathe, to find some air in the suffocating walls of his own life.

Taking one of the spec-ops vehicles would be complete suicide. He doesn’t want to think about what he’s missing out on tonight—what he’s been missing out on for months in spite of his best efforts. Even as he climbs into the open-armed driver’s seat of the sleek Grand Convertible, Tim feels the hot buzz of his jumbled thoughts threatening to swarm in again. It’s with borderline illegal speed that he guns three hundred thousand dollars of steel and engine out of the garage and down the drive. He clears the front gate and from there floors the gas until there’s nothing left but the cold slipstream.

There’s something about driving with the top down that frees him. It’s reckless, especially at the speed that Tim is driving, and yet it’s as if going this fast allows him to outrace all his cares and doubts; he’s too fast, too exposed to the stinging night air. And though the thought of careening out of control crosses his mind once or twice, it’s almost welcoming in that it would be a release from the iron web he’s weaved around himself these past months.

He drives far and fast, the countryside outside Gotham, so ironically pristine given the city that it borders, turns wilder and wilder. Tim sees the light pollution of Gotham get dimmer and dimmer, until finally, he’s driving through nothing but empty highway, a sea of brilliant stars swallowing him whole.

Tim feels his own insignificance as he drives through this endless expanse of night sky. And yet he doesn’t at all feel diminished by it—it’s freeing, knowing that he and all his stupid problems are so minuscule in the grand scheme of the universe—of how comparatively small all the evil that he fights against is.

All too soon the stars begin to disappear. An ugly pink and yellow cloud of light encroaches on the magnificent darkness. The convertible crests a hill, and Tim finds himself looking down on what is possibly an even bigger refuge for all the inequity in the world. A drizzle of rain falls over the cityscape, warm and light, but not enough so that he doesn’t put the roof up.

He wasn’t even aware that he was driving to Metropolis. Evidently memory and an emotion truer than all the ones he’s been bombarded with that night knew that he was going to end up here. He can hear the distinct scream of sirens; can feel the exhaust fumes from the skyscrapers and factories itching at his nostrils, but it’s not enough to deter him from the course that this true part of himself plotted.

There’s only one place he wants to go, now that he’s here.

Only one person that he wants to see.

To the uninitiated, Metropolis and Gotham are cut from the same cloth. Both cities spread like a growth over what was once native earth; both cities boast an unstable hodge-podge of citizens from every social paradigm trying to live where there’s scarcely room to breathe. But whereas Gotham is covered in a perpetual layer of choking filth, Metropolis is so pristinely kept that it almost hurts to look at. Thanks to sweeping changes brought about by Lex Luthor’s mayoral cabinet, there isn’t a city in America cleaner, greener or more corrupt, Gotham not withstanding.

Tim follows a familiar path beat out by memory into the heart of the city. It’s almost painful to have been stripped of the sanctuary of starry sky for traffic lights and rude pedestrians. He can feel the looming threat of his thoughts once more, but driving proves to be a distraction: he has to concentrate on something substantive, and no the hurly-burly of what-if’s and because’s.

Besides, he has somewhere to be, and he’s not going to stop now. Not even when he pulls the Bentley into a car park and starts to feel his resolve slip does he entertain the notion. True, it’s almost midnight, and he’s showing up unexpectedly. But he has to try, has to have faith that he’ll find the solace he’s been seeking.

The doormen know him so well that they nod him through. At the elevator to the penthouse, Tim starts to lose his grit. Suppose he does get turned away? Suppose nobody answers? He’ll have to turn tail and go back to Gotham—to the manor and the gale-force fury of trying to keep it together.

He steps out on the penthouse floor, but a sudden immobility seizes him. There’s too much doubt, and if things don’t work out here he’ll end up feeling even worse—end up with yet another notch in his belt to feel completely and utterly useless. He’s trapped in the snowstorm again, his vision blurring even with the aid of his glasses. There’s a pressure against his eardrums; he’s keenly aware of his heartbeat—it’s loud, too fast, and Tim can well believe that he’s going to have a heart attack here in the middle of this hallway.

He has to find absolution, has to think clearly. He’s flying towards some giant, blazing sun with heavy wings. The stinging weight of light and heat and molten wax obscuring his vision, his mind. He’s going to fall, fast and hard and long…

A door opens and a familiar voice pulls Tim back from the chasm he feels himself plummeting towards.

“Tim? What are you doing here?" 

Tim turns around, smiling at Conner. But Conner isn’t smiling. His blue eyes are wide, and Tim doesn’t know why. He also doesn’t know why Conner’s hurrying across the threshold of his penthouse to meet him, his face rife with worry—at least not until he himself feels the hot tears sliding down his cheeks.

It’s on the tip of Tim’s tongue to say that he’s okay—hell, he’s even got the excuse of having an allergic reaction to his new eye drops formulated. But the second he looks up into that face—that strong face with its dependable cleft chin and eyes so blue that they can only be clear—he dissolves. Everything explodes, so that he’s painfully aware of just how weak he feels—how exhausted in every way he is.

Tim tries to stop the tears. Kon doesn’t deserve to see him so weak, not after everything he has to cope with in his own life. But his emotions have been incubating under pressure for so long; they seep through the fissures of his being—through those cracks in the stone walls he’s tried so hard to maintain.

One second he’s shaking like a volcano on the verge of erupting; the next, Kon’s got him across the threshold, an arm around his shoulders. Tim’s so small compared to Kon, and so utterly pathetic in this moment that he feels like a rabbit under the massive legs of a grizzly bear.

He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be damaging Kon’s well-earned security and time off with his hysterics.

“I’m…s-sorry,” Tim half-hiccups into the strength of Conner’s shoulder. They’re on the couch, Tim shaking like the most fragile shell of ground in an earthquake. Kon’s the only thing holding him together now; Tim feels the terror that Kon is going to up and disappear skitter across his mind. But this above all else he won’t abide. So he lets himself fall apart—allows the rock to crumble into the threatening sea, because what the fuck else is there left to do?

“I’m sorry.” He says it over and over again. He knows there are addendums to add—other things he needs to say, to elaborate on. But all he can do is gasp the same two words: _I’m sorry_.

Conner is patient—as understanding as the vast part of the wide, wide universe that he came from. He holds Tim, lets him cry, doesn’t care that he’s getting wet tears and snot all over his shirt. He just lets Tim be—waits out this almighty collapse until there’s nothing left but pitiful aftershocks. Then, without speaking, Kon lifts Tim off the sofa—Tim doesn’t even have it in him to so much as squeak in surprise, or give voice when his already askew glasses slip from his nose and bounce to the penthouse floor.

He’s taken bullet hits; been zapped with everything from electricity to arcane energy; been tortured, stabbed, beaten to a pulp and nearly drowned. Yet nothing feels as exhausting as this post-catastrophe blow-up; he’s in the calm between two shattering quakes, too devastated to even consider what’s happening as Kon starts to help him out of his clothes once they’re in the bathroom. He’s moving by rote, hearing the water fill the tub and feeling the heat from distance.

Still, through his detached state, he’s overly aware of Conner the most. He’s conscious of Conner’s strength—of his arms and chest—of the warmth of his body, and his soft, encouraging voice as he helps Tim climb into the water.

Conner: kind, strong, loyal as a Great Pyrenees, Conner. Cosmic blue eyes hold Tim’s gaze, the gravity force pulling Tim from the subterranean depths of whatever in the fuck this downward spiral was—pulling him through earth, ocean and atmosphere into outer space. He could breath again, think again, all because of Kon…

Kon, who is know kneeling on the floor next to the bathtub…the bathtub that a very naked Tim is sitting in…

The heat that rises in Tim isn’t quite certain just what it wants to do with itself—he should be blushing royal red, but the blood doesn’t rush to his face—it goes to the opposite direction.

Tim draws his knees up at once, trying to his this reaction and likely failing. 

“Th-thanks,” he says. “Guess we don’t have a ton of boundaries after all this time, huh?”

“I’ve seen you in the change rooms many times, Tim. Not like it’s that big of a deal.”

But even through his slightly blurred vision, Tim can see that there’s something in Kon’s gaze a little too intense for this to not be a big deal at all.

“How’re you feeling?" 

Tim clears his throat again. “A bit like the Scarecrow from _The Wizard of Oz_.”

“How’s that?”

“Y’know…first they took my chest out and threw it over there, then they took my legs out and threw them over there.” He relaxes a little in the soothing water. “Good thing you picked up all those bits of straw, Kon.”

Conner smiles. “Any time, Tim. You know that.”

A sudden scratch at the bathroom door makes Tim jump; Kon puts a steadying hand on the bare wetness of Tim’s knee. “Relax. It’s just Krypto. He was asleep when you showed up. He wants to say hello.”

Thinking of the big, friendly dog is even more of a balm to Tim’s weary state of mind. He relaxes fully into the water, leaning his head against the back of the tub and closing his eyes.

“Could sure go for a dog.”

“That’s what you’ve got me here for, right? Big dumb puppydog Conner Kent.”

“Not dumb. Never dumb. ‘Sides, you’re more like a teddy bear, Kon.”

Kon laughs, loud and big and filled with that remarkable heart of his. Tim realizes that Kon’s still got a hand on his knee, and it does little to alleviate his current predicament.

They’ve been allies for years, friends for longer. Tim has never thought too much about Conner in any regard aside from those terms or any variant thereof.

But Conner, he realizes with a slight shiver, was the first person who came to mind and heart. Conner was the one he ran to when he felt the first threatening tremors of this breakdown.

Tim glances at Kon; he’s still one refractive error away from being a blurry blob, but Tim can feel his gaze, and the weight of that hand on his knee. Unconsciously, he shifts, turning his body sideways in the spacious tub, arms brazed on the edge. Kon’s hand falls away, but once Tim is resituated, it doesn’t take long for those warm, strong fingers to cover his hand.

“What happened, Timmy?" 

Tim inhales at Conner’s use of that name; that name that he hasn’t been called in years. For so long, being called “Timmy” made him roll his eyes, even if he did love it deep down. Now, it brings him back to that place where he lived in the security of childhood—with that knowledge of being taken care of, looked after…loved.

Conner squeezes his hand over Tim’s, and Tim, bidden by the contact—by Kon calling him by that kindhearted endearment and by simply just being there—lets the floodgates open once again.

He doesn’t cry this time; it feels like he’s observing everything he feels from a distance of light-years. He can speak calmly, his eyes on Kon’s, his fingers twining with Kon’s. It’s a momentous relief to finally expose these demons to the light—he’s held onto them so long that he almost bought into every last deception they fed him.

But here with Conner, he finds the strength to cast them back to the pit.

When, at long last, he finishes stripping his heart bare, Conner sighs, presses his forehead against Tim’s and says, “Ah, Timmy.” His breath is warm; Tim can smell the fragrance of peppermint from Kon’s preferred flavor of tea. “I’m so sorry.”

Tim clears his throat. “It’s not your fault.”

“But it still bites that you feel all these things. I wish I could do something about it.”

“You are.”

It’s going to happen; in that way that two people always bound to collide understand, Tim knows that he’s going to kiss Conner; that he’s going to feel those beautiful pink lips against his own. He knows Conner will taste sweet, that he’ll steal every last breath Tim has left in his lungs. They’re so close now, so achingly close…

A pronounced series of whines and scratches sound from outside the bathroom door.

“Damn it,” Conner hisses. “I was about to walk Krypto before you got here. He’s been cooped up all day…”

Tim leans back into the water, hating the distance. “Go. I’ll dry off.”

“I’ve got some spare clothes in the linen closet. Might be a bit big on you, but—

“I’d like that, Kon. Thanks.”

Conner squeezes Tim’s hand once more, and then gets to his feet. Tim waits in the warm bath water until he hears the apartment door open and shut as Kon leaves with his devoted canine.

He finds a button-up shirt in the linen closet. Conner, being about two sizes bigger than Tim, the shirt comes somewhere to just above Tim’s knees.

Conner’s apartment is entirely him—there’s nothing personable about the furniture because Kon hasn’t figured himself out yet, but there are things—lots of things—that scream Conner Kent. A massive stuffed cushion in the shape of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich complete with happy face rests against the sofa; the fridge in the kitchen is replete with magnets ranging from sarcastic sayings to Pokémon. A retro-style bead curtain separates one open space in the wall from the kitchen.

What catches Tim’s eye the most are the photos. There are pictures of Bart, and of Cassie and Beast Boy; there’s a photo of Kon, Tim and Jaime at a Fourth of July fireworks picnic. There are photos of Clark and of Lois, and Kara and Barry…

Friends.

Family.

What matters most to Conner, who went so long without a family structure of his own.

Tim smiles, and brushes his fingers over a framed photo of he and Conner making duck lips. He can practically feel the day the picture was taken; can remember the weather and the smells and the feeling of Conner’s presence.

He feels safe here, in this home that isn’t his own.

Guilt whispers at the door of solitude: he should be damn grateful for the mansion that he all but forced his way into all those years ago; he shouldn’t be acting like a stray cat, wandering into places he doesn’t belong…

Tim huffs a sigh, crosses the kitchen and quietly slips onto the balcony. It’s stopped raining now, but the fall has left all of Metropolis smelling like wet concrete. This high up, the air is slightly cooler. Tim savors the feeling of the air and the smell; he breathes in and out, imagining himself weightless and flying and above all of his worries and cares.

His bare feet over the smooth, wet surface of the balcony; Metropolis is a blur of orange light; there’s no worry, no fear this high up here with Conner.

His fingers close around the railing.

If only he could fly the way Kon can; no vehicles or tech to make him feel trapped or bound—just air and the promise of everlasting something. Up there, the fears and insecurities wouldn’t be able to weigh him down.

Only it would be all so much better with Kon flying at his side.

It’s so ridiculous that he’s a Robin; robins are meant to fly, and Tim isn’t even sure if his wings have ever grown. Even if they have, they’re probably broken beyond repair.

Fly.

He wants to fly, if only for a little while.

He hears the door slide open.

“Tim? Tim, no!”

Tim’s eyes flash open; he whirls around, in time to see a big, blurry form rushing towards him. Sheer instinct makes him back away; his grasp on the railing slackens, and he nearly falls backwards.

Two strong arms encircle him; for a moment the ground disappears. Tim breathes in a smell that makes him think of safety, and realizes that his wish is being granted to an extent: Conner is flying him way from the slick balcony railing, holding him bridal style.

“I wasn’t going to jump,” Tim says, not at all disliking the feeling of wearing only one of Conner’s shirts while held in his arms.

“It sure as hell looked like it.” Kon floats back to the ground. Tim is so close to him that he can distinguish the fear and relief on his face—can feel the beat of his heart. Conner was scared for him, has always been scared for him; he’s looked out for him and been the one thing looking at Tim whenever Tim thought himself the last person anyone cared to see.

And he’s here right now, when Tim thought he’d found himself at the end of the world.

Thought disappears, because who the fuck needs to think all the time?

Tim slips his fingers through Conner’s hair and pulls his face down; he kisses Kon with everything he feels—need and gratitude and that childlike desire to be protected from every evil in the universe.

Kon gasps. Tim takes the parting of his lips and runs the length of this exciting, uncharted field; he’s tongue touches Kon’s making them both moan. It’s such an unexpected sensation—so soft and malleable and wet and warm all at once. Conner clutches Tim closer, apparently oblivious of that fact that they’re still on the rain-soaked patio. He’s not pulling away, but pulling closer, claiming Tim’s lips and tongue, demanding his touch.

Eventually, breath takes precedence over the need to remain connected; Tim pulls back on a gasp, and stares into Conner’s eyes. He can feel Kon’s chest rising and falling—hear the rumble of his breath and feel the heat of his skin.

Slowly, never taking his eyes off Tim for a second, Conner walks them back into the penthouse.

Conner lays him on the bed, and Tim’s mind reels at what this could turn into. When Kon starts stripping off his shirt and pants, it’s all Tim can do to not gasp. Not because he hasn’t seen Kon shirtless or even undressed before; but because this could go somewhere he isn’t certain he’s ready for.

Kon meets his eyes as he crawls onto the bed. And, because he knows Tim so well, he says, “Just want to help you, Timmy. Nothing more. Will you let me? Let me help for just a little bit, yeah?”

Fuck the fear; fuck it and the doubt and every other thing under the sun that gets in the way of this.

He’s in Conner’s arms in a matter of seconds, safe from everything threatening him.

Neither of them speaks; the contact makes it useless. Every once in a while, Conner kisses Tim on the forehead, as if to reassure him that, yes, he is here, this is really happening, and he’s not going anywhere.

Krypto jumps onto the foot of the bed and gives Tim a momentary stare of bemusement before settling by his side. The friendly pooch offers Tim a quick lick on his leg, and promptly falls asleep.

Tim crooks his head under Kon’s chin. “I want to stay here.”

Conner rubs a fluid circle into Tim’s shoulder. “I figured you’d say that.”

“But you’re going to tell me why that’s wrong, aren’t you?”

“No way, Timmy. I want you here more than air. I’ve wanted you to be here for a while—just the two of us.” Conner’s arm tightens around Tim. “You’re…you’re my best friend, and I want you to be more…”

Tim swallows. “But?”

“But I don’t think you should run away from your family to do it.”

“I’m no good for—

“No. Don’t give me that. That’s just the darkness talking. You’re brighter than it, baby.”

Tim blinks, a tingling thrill going through him.

“Baby?”

“Yeah. Got a problem with that?”

Tim smiles, warmth coursing through his entire body. “I’d have to be even crazier than I already am.”

Conner puts a finger to Tim’s lips. “Not a chance, Tim. Not crazy. Crazy is Harley Quinn and The Joker. You’re nothing like that—you’re just breaking every bone in your body to try and please everyone. And I get it. Bruce isn’t an easy guy to be around—Clark says that a lot. And I think it’s complicated with three Robin’s in the nest.”

Conner kisses him again—God, is Tim ever going to be able to get enough of that? “But they’re your family, Timmy. They’re dysfunctional sure, but I don’t know a single screwed up family that wouldn’t put a gun to anything or anyone threatening their own.”

“It just feels…y’know…so real. When I think about it, it’s like, why wouldn’t they not need me around?”

“That’s darkness, like I said. It’s trying to drown the—trying to snuff out their lights and break you down.” Conner rolls them over abruptly, bracing his hands on the bed and staring down at Tim with the gentlest smile.

“You might not think much of yourself, but I do. A lot of people do. If you’re still not feeling good enough for you, then let me show you how good you really are. How worth it and amazing.”

“Kon…”

“Shh…” He settles next to Tim and twitches the sheets over them both. “Stay here as long as you like. But you’ve gotta tell them what’s going on. I don’t want you to burn something like your family to the ground because of these stories you’re telling yourself.”

Tim’s eyes burn, but he isn’t going to cry again. Not here, where he’s felt safer than ever, with Conner, all solid and warm around him.

Miracle of miracles, he finally slips into a silent slumber. There are no dreams or nightmares—just a calm, quiet stillness, the first he’s known in months. It lasts long, a sleep so complete that he can all but mark its beginning and its end.

He wakes once, towards dawn, when Conner gets out of bed to let Krypto out. Then he’s asleep, secure in the warmth of his slumber.

The next time he wakes up, he feels more rested than he ever has in his life. Conner is splayed out on the other side of the bed, arms and legs tangled in the sheets, his chest rising and falling steadily.

Tim sits up, and notices his glasses on the bedside table. Kon must have gotten them when he let Krypto out. Touched, Tim jams them onto his nose, and takes time to appreciate Conner’s sleeping form.

There’s more to his being Super Boy than just being so strong—he’s simply incredible: beautiful and kind as spring rain. Some have called him dense due to being uninitiated to the ways of Earth, but Tim always liked that curiosity about Conner.

He crawls across the bed, and kisses Kon.

Conner wakes slowly, and wraps his arms around Tim. Once again, their bodies are flush, legs twining together and hands searching for purchase. This contact, this heat and need and acceptance could carry Tim through a galactic storm; he needs more, needs to possess as much of Conner as he can.

Tim shudders when he fees the rigidity of Kon’s hard-on grinding against his. They pull apart and stare into each other’s eyes; with his mind recently hard-wired for panic, Tim has just enough time for those rampaging horses of doubt and insecurity to thunder towards him and make him believe that this will all be over.

Then Conner silences them, guiding Tim by the wrist, until Tim is full on palming the bulge in the front of Kon’s briefs.

“Huge,” Tim blurts out.

Conner laughs, then snakes his hand under the shirt that Tim slept in. This time Tim doesn’t make a sticky, embarrassing mess of things. He breathes deeply, savoring the feeling of another hand—of Conner’s hand—closing around him.

Conner strokes him gently, eyes never leaving Tim’s for a second.

“Mine too.” Kon groans.

Tim can hardly believe that this is happening. If it weren’t for the blessed boon of sensation, he’d peg this down as a dream. And once he has Kon’s briefs down and his own fingers around that impressive Little Man of Steel that isn’t entirely little, he knows that he’s crossed a bridge; he’ll never look back, not that he wants to, and what’s more, those goddamn horses can’t follow—not here, not with Conner.

They both come in a matter of moments, and it’s pure and utter bliss. Tim arches his head back as white heat tears through him at sonic speed; Conner strokes him to the end, filthy beautiful words of encouragement spilling from his lips as Tim spills onto his abdomen. In turn, Conner bucks upwards, grasping Tim with one arm. Warm, sticky wetness coats Tim’s fingers .

Tim sinks shakily next to Conner, his glasses askew, stars popping behind his eyes.

Kon lolls his head to the side, a dazed smile on his face. “That was…”

“Yeah…”

"Yeah."

They breathe together for a long while, both coming down from the high.

Then…

“You going to stay a bit?”

He wants to, but… “I should probably let them know back in Gotham, first.”

Conner sits upright, eyes wide. “You didn’t tell them you were here?”

“Well…no, actually. Now you mention it, that probably wasn’t a good call.”

“About as good a call as the Ghostface killer. They’re probably tearing Gotham to shreds looking for you.”

“I know, it’s just…”

Kon sighs, and gently readjusts Tim’s glasses.

“Yeah. Didn’t really think about it, huh?”

Tim shakes his head. “No. I just wanted to get here as fast as I could…to see you.”

A quick kiss graces Tim’s lips; then Kon’s pulling him out of bed.

“Come on. I’ll fly you back after you get dressed.”

“But the car…”

“We can worry about that later, Timmy.”

Tim hates having to get back into his clothes from the night before; hates that he has to leave here, and hates himself for not having the sense to have even left a note.

But Conner’s right. He can’t just drop ship on his family.

It’s a cloudy, crisp day, with the sun obscured by a sheet of gray clouds. Tim clings close to the heat of Kon’s body as they fly back to Gotham. Kon talks all the way there, about old memories and the latest crap going down in Metropolis.

At one point, he presses his lips to Tim’s ear and whispers, “I can show you the world; shining, shimmering, splendid. Tell me princess, now when did you last let your heart decide?”

Tim laughs, not wanting this to end despite the freezing air.

But like all good things, it has to reach its conclusion. They reach the smog and grime of Gotham; the city is like a gray tumor, besmirching water, air and earth as it continues to grow. Not even the greenery of The Palisades can detract from the cancerous sprawl of the city.

Tim glances at Conner as they descend towards Wayne Manor; he isn’t sure he can do this, now he’s facing the proverbial lion in its den. They’ll be mad—furious, even. They’ll all see him for the stupid weakling he was so scared of them seeing him as to begin with.

“It’s going to be fine, baby.” Kon says as they land on the balcony of Tim’s bedroom. “You’re going to be okay.”

“If Bruce doesn’t nail me to the wall, sure I will.”

“Well, if he does that, then you’ll have an excuse to stay with me after all.”

Tim glowers at Conner. “That’s a little bit of a Pyrrhic victory.”

“But a victory nonetheless.”

“You’re starting to sound like Bruce.”

“And you’re stalling. Don’t worry; I’ll be waiting when you get back.” He brushes his hand over Tim’s, and smiles that goofy smile.

Despite this place being his home, Tim walks through the grand, empty halls of Wayne Manor as if he’s under the Eye of Sauron. He breathes in and out steadily, thinking about Conner and everything Conner told him.

This is going to be scary, but he can manage it. He’ll live, even if what transpires kills him. He’ll be okay; there’s an out now, with his Kryptonian.

A sort of sixth sense tells him that he’ll find his family in their usual roost—in the place where it all started to unravel. Sure enough, Tim hears their loud voices even before the elevator to the Cave opens its doors.

Bruce, Dick and Jason are arguing…and they’re arguing about him.

“—already combed all the usual places, and still nothing.” Bruce sounds frantic. “We have to broaden the search.”

“We will,” Dick says hotly. “We meaning Jason and I. You’re going on about thirty without sleep. You’re not any good to Tim like this.”

“I can handle it,” Bruce snaps. “I’m not about to let needing sleep get in the way of him ending up —

“Like me?” Jason shakes his head. “You had yourself to rely on when Mister Laughy Pants got a hold of me. Now we’ve got allies; we can spread the word.”

Bruce flips a chair in his towering rage. Tim can’t stand it anymore…can’t stand what he’s done to his family. He crosses the floor to the command center.

All three are on him in an instant.

“What the—Tim, where the fuck did you take off to?” Dick’s face is flushed, with relief or anger, Tim can’t really tell.

“I went to Conner’s.” Tim speaks to his feet, their stares weighing him down with shame.

“Jesus Christ,” Bruce breathes. “Jesus Christ, Tim, why didn’t you say anything?”

Tim closes his eyes, breathes in, and counts to four. He thinks, again, about Kon—about his promise to be waiting. He makes himself look them all in the eyes—Dick’s relief, Jason’s stoic surprise, and Bruce’s furious concern.

“I didn’t feel good enough,” he says, and it sounds so ridiculous even to him. “I had to get out—just for a while, because it…it hurt. In here.” He rubs at his temple.

Silence follows his words, punctuated only by the squeak of bats and the rush of the underground waterfalls.

They all seem so dumbstruck; and Tim well and truly believes that his stupidity has dealt some kind of blow.

But then he realizes that it’s not stupidity—the action was reckless, but he did it for a reason, because he felt it in himself to do so.

“I’m trying,” Tim goes on. “I’m trying as hard as I can. I feel sometimes like I’m not needed here anymore. You’re all smart enough together. Dick’s go the brains and the instinct; Jason has the street-smarts…and Bruce…you’re the goddamn Batman. I’m just the leftover. The reserve. I’ve tried to push myself, to make myself smarter and stronger because I want to be useful. To be needed with you. With my family. And last night…”

How to put into words what he felt? Vindicated? Only that isn’t the case because, as Kon so astutely pointed out, that was just a story Tim told himself. Still, being told that he wasn’t needed for that bust had torn a hole through him at the same time that it had caused that conflagration of demons to crow in triumph.

He can feel the memory slicing at the scars he healed; feel the pain from last night bleed afresh despite all the time and care Conner took to mend him.

Tears fall, scalding like acid as they slide down his cheeks. His voice breaks, choked with sobs that he can’t stop for the life of him. He doesn’t want to be showing even more weakness in front of them, not when he already slipped up so damn badly. But it can’t be helped. Tim cries like a little kid, eyes averted, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.  
  
The stares of the others weight a metric ton—he can feel them watching like hawks, all three too stunned to say or do anything. In the part of his mind not clouded over by this emotional hurricane, Tim wonders just what in the world they’re going to think of him now: the littlest Robin can’t keep his shit together long enough to stop himself from crying like some seven year old afraid of the boogeyman.  
  
He hears footsteps cross the smooth, concrete floor, but doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to see the disappointment in Bruce’s eyes, the embarrassment in Dick’s or the irritation in Jason’s.  
  
_Get a grip, Drake_ , he thinks desperately _. For the love of Christ, just reel it in! Stop being such a mammoth pussy and just—_  
  
Two hands, large and warm, gently but firmly take him by the shoulders. He stills, his breath catching in another pitiful sob.  
  
He looks up, and finds himself staring at Bruce. Only Bruce isn’t disappointed; Bruce isn’t mocking or annoyed or angry. His eyes, so often filled with that thousand-yard stare into infinite sorrows and calculations, are warm; understanding.  
  
Tim saw that look once before—the night Bruce found him clutching his father’s dead body. Only there’s something deeper to this, something less reactionary. It’s as if this part of Bruce has been there all along, buried under all the detritus of his many masks and personas. It’s enough to stop the sobs dead in Tim’s throat. He breathes hard, eyes still streaming.  
  
Gently, Bruce brushes a trail of tears off Tim’s cheek with the pad of his thumb.  
  
“Poor Timmy.” He’s not condescending, not convicting—he’s genuine, caring...like a father. “Poor Timmy. I’m not good at this kind of thing, as well you know. But I’m so sorry. I should have been paying more attention.”  
  
Tim sniffles with as much dignity as he can muster. He remembers what Connor said earlier: _they’re your family, baby. None of you might see it but there’s something there...  
_  
“It’s...not your fault...” Tim takes his glasses off and wipes at his eyes, needing something to do.  
  
“It is.” Bruce squeezes his shoulder, sighs heavily and looks back at Dick and Jason. “I push you all so hard. I always have. Ingrained things into you that nobody your age should have had to cope with. You never complained as much as you could have.” He smiles down at Tim, and Tim almost starts crying again; that smile melts away every last line of care and worry on Bruce’s face; it highlights not just how handsome he is, but how warm he could be if he’d let himself. Tim is reminded then of just how comparatively young Bruce really is in spite of all he’s been through since he took up the cowl.  
  
“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” Bruce says, his voice soft. “You’re my son, Timmy.” He looks back at Jason and Dick. “You’re all my sons.” His smile somewhat falters as he adds, “I like to pretend that you two got together _after_ the adoption papers had already been sent through the mail, but still...”  
  
Dick and Jason laugh. They too are watching Tim, that same expression of pride and understanding that Bruce has on their faces.  
  
Bruce squeezes Tim’s shoulder again. “Better now?”  
  
Tim nods, wiping his eyes once more. “Better.”  
  
“Take some time for yourself, okay? Things are quiet now as it is. You deserve a breather.” Bruce turns to go.

Overwhelmed with gratitude, devotion and love, Tim can’t help but voice what comes next.  
  
“Thanks…Dad.”  
  
Bruce freezes halfway across the floor of the cave. Dick and Jason stare in anticipation, looking as if they’ve just triumphed over some long-standing bet. A tremor races up Bruce’s spine—Tim isn’t certain that any of the others have ever called Bruce “Dad” before. But it seems fitting now, now he knows that there’s more to this broken, fighting man than just his damage and his vendetta.  
  
Bruce looks back over his shoulder. Tim tells himself that it’s the dim lighting in the Cave that’s making Bruce’s eyes appear so bright all of a sudden—because hell no, he did not just make the Batman cry.  
  
“Any time, Timmy.” That soft smile is on his lips again. He turns, shudders a sigh, and walks onwards. The other Robins wait, all three of them stymied by what has just transpired here in this place of war-talk and gloom. Even in the aftermath of having seen something so rare from Bruce—even knowing that his family doesn’t think any less of him for his weaknesses—Tim can’t help but feel ashamed of his breakdown.  
  
As if sensing his unnecessary guilt, Jason pushes himself off the control panel and strides forth. Before Tim knows what’s happening, Jason Todd—Red Hood, borderline personality, who once shot Tim in the chest—is pulling him into a tight hug.  
  
“You’re great, kiddo,” Jason whispers into his hair. “Don’t go beating yourself up, alright? You’re too damn good for that.” Jason breaks the embrace and offers Tim that trademark grin of chaos and mirth. “I’m the one with the biggest straw when it comes to the mental issues, alright?”  
  
Tim chuckles. “Sure. Makes sense that your straw is so big, given the noises you two make.”  
  
“Watch it, brat.” Jason gives him a cuff on the shoulder. “My foot; your ass.”  
  
He gives Tim another smile then heads off, stopping by Dick, still watching Tim silently.  
  
“Coming to bed, sugar bear?”  
  
“In a bit, pumpkin butt. Gotta talk to our baby bird for a second.”  
  
“Suit yourself.”  
  
They kiss quickly, and Tim averts his eyes. Really, the pet names were bad enough. The PDA is almost enough to make him pass out from how red his face has turned. As for “pumpkin butt,” he isn’t even sure he wants to delve into the etymology of that endearment.  
  
Dick just keeps watching him as the bats squeak overhead and the waterfalls rush ceaselessly into the underground lake below. Finally, Dick steps towards him; Tim can all but see the thousand thoughts and feelings in his sky blue eyes.  


Recalling how stony Dick had been when Tim had returned from Metropolis, Tim feels the guilt threaten to eat away at him. Out of them all, he can’t abide making Dick worry.  
  
But Dick doesn’t look angry at all.  
  
He stops within arms-reach of Tim and says, “You wanna know why I was so happy when Bruce told me he’d made you his new Robin?”  
  
Tim clears his throat. “‘Cause you didn’t have to worry about ever having to wear the underoos again?”  
  
Dick laughs, that warm-sounding noise that makes Tim want to be a better person. “No, smartass.”  
  
“Then why?”  
  
“Because all my life, even when my family was alive, all I’d always wanted was a little brother. And I got the best.” He ruffles Tim’s hair—actually ruffles it, and suddenly Tim is an over-eager twelve year old out trying to impress his hero.  
  
“Always wanted to do that to him,” Dick laughs. “And this too.” He gives Tim a playful series of potshots to the tummy that Tim barely dodges. “And this—“ he seizes Tim and starts tickling his ribs. Tim tries to squirm away, his laughter echoing around the cave. “And...this!” Dick wraps an arm around Tim’s neck, holds him against his side and gives him a noogie.  
  
“Uncle!” Tim gasps. “Jesus, Dick!”  
  
Dick laughs and relinquishes his grip. He’s staring at Tim with unadulterated pride.

“I know this family is dysfunctional as all holy hell,” he says. “I’ve seen it from the beginning. But we Wayne’s look out for each other, Timmy. We’ve got to. I might not have the answers to everything—I can’t promise that I’ll solve your problems or even tell you what you want to hear—but I’ve got two functioning ears. Talk to me, okay? If there’s something weighing on you, I’ll shoulder whatever I can. So will Bru—Dad. And Jason. And Babs, and Alfred, and even Selina.”  
  
Lights.  
  
Connor had called them lights in the darkness. Tim realizes then that the only reason he’s ever fooled himself into thinking that his loved ones wouldn’t want to help was all an act of illusion—the darkness, ever present in the life of anyone who took up the mantle against evil, fooling him into thinking that they were too far away to bother grasping. But they’ve always been there, shining the way back here—back home.  
  
“Thanks, big bro.”  
  
“Love you, kiddo. Now what say you take a shower and lay low for the rest of the day, yeah?”

“Sounds like heaven.”

They walk to the elevator—Tim is practically levitating. They love him—actually love him, and need him as much as he loves and needs them.

He and Dick remain in comfortable silence on the way up. Tim’s almost afraid that they’ll all be waiting in the study, but the big, stately room is empty. Dick gives him another cuff on the shoulder, and then leaves Tim to his own devices, unaware that Tim’s devices are in the shape and size of a Kryptonian.

Tim runs through the halls—runs at a speed that would give Alfred a heart attack, but he doesn’t care. He’s happy—happy for the first time in a long time. And when he races into his room and finds Conner still standing on the balcony, he feels as if he really could grow sturdy wings and fly to the sun and live to tell about it.

Kon turns, a smile on his face. Tim runs to him, throws his arms around his neck, and pulls him down for a kiss that almost staggers Conner.

When, at last, they break apart, Kon grins.

“Better?”

Tim nods. “Yeah, baby. Much, much better.”

**Author's Note:**

> ...I just really love the Bat Family, okay? Probably because my IRL family is such a shitshow. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think!


End file.
